Claire’s Story – Looking Back At Her Past Life

This will make the start of this volume, being an introduction/prologue kind of chapter. It’s not quite either one, yet it’s a different kind of chapter so I wanted to explain why I’m adding it.

Claire’s story is unique, and it’s so much my own, that I wanted to let her (as a character) talk about the moment when she came to terms with her own past, in the form of a past life she lived.

As always, copyright law is in force. This is my work and I am not allowing anyone to use it for their own purposes. All characters and situations are fictional. They are not intended to be any actual person, alive or dead. With the exception of one person – MYSELF.

With the legalities dispensed, let me get on to the creative side of things.

My idea for the introduction chapter of Book #3, that will be updated very soon. Bear in mind that this is a draft, and I’m writing off the cuff before doing much in the way of spellchecking and looking for grammatical errors.

It was a gray kind of day outside, and Claire decided to put on a pot of tea instead of the usual so-strong-it-stands-up-to-a-spoon coffee she brewed every morning.

She couldn’t explain why exactly, just that tea and something sweet, biscotti she thought right at that moment, sounded like the answer to the gloomy weather that was predicted to stay right where it was for at least the next few days.

There was something in mind that she wanted to do. No, needed to do. No, hoped to do despite the fact that it scared the hell out of her and she didn’t know where to begin. But, maybe today was the day. Sure, it could be, if she wanted it to be, right?

The kettle was whistling and Claire got up to brew her beloved French Breakfast Tea. It was strong, of course she wouldn’t otherwise drink it, and, it had that nice vanilla finish.

“Believe in your dreams. They may just tell you who you REALLY are!”

Assembling her antique china teapot and cups (she went all out today and even got out that tea tray she never used), she cozied up in a big, overstuffed chair, took out her phone, and started recording.

“I am saying this at last. It’s been forever and so much has happened.” She stopped, swallowed to ease the dryness in her tense throat, and began again. “But I’m going to say this. All of it. I’m sure I’ll be stopping and starting and have a whole library full of recordings by the time I’m finished. But it will be done. And said. And I’ll have it.” One deep breath, a good gulp of her tea, and Claire started speaking in a much softer, yet stronger, voice.

“I was born in a small town in Mexico. It was near the coast. A short ride to the beach. You could smell the salt in the air when the breeze was blowing from that direction. My mom and I would take a hamper full of food, wine and cider and spend a day at the beach as often as we could. I loved it. She was an amazing mom.

Her name was Conception. And most people in our village called her “Connie” for short. She never ceased to surprise me. Tiny thing that she was, shorter than me by the time I was 12, she was a powerhouse of strength and energy. The woman never stopped.

My father worshipped the ground she walked on, too. He was different from her. Much taller, very muscular and strong, and his eyes were so bright green it took your breath away when they looked at you. And that smile of his. Dazzling. Such white teeth!

Richard Merriton was his name. And I knew, even when I was very small, that he was not from these shores. The shores of this beautiful Mexican place, where I grew up. Instead, he was from America. A place called New York. It sounded like a strange place to me when I first heard of it. Crowded. Loud. Dirty. But, he said it had a magic a person could not describe. Magic? The thought was intriguing to me, but, when I looked around I thought my home in La Fuenta was as magical as any place could be on Earth, so, daddy, sweet person that he was, must have been exaggerating.

One day, where I was but 9, my father sat me down and told me that our family would be moving to New York. That place with the magic I didn’t understand. I tried to fight it, but being just a little girl, I started crying right away. Uncontrollably. That was a tendency I had. Crying like a waterfall when I got emotional. That remained something I did, albeit rarely, for the rest of my life.”

Claire now shifted in her seat, clicked the pause button, grabbed a coconut biscotti, and took a snack break. She needed a moment here anyway. It was still emotional for her to remember that first glimpse of New York. It was terrifying! And right now she was a bit rattled anyway. Logic told her that this was not possible. Yet. Here she was in January 2016 and she was thinking of a point in time in 1840. Remembering it. She flicked the crumbs onto a small plate, took another sip of tea, and went on.

“New York was as bleak and dreary as I imagined it would be. Everything was gray. The streets, the buildings, the sky — even many of the people dressed in gray. A stark difference from the bright, happy colors of Mexico!

And the New Yorkers themselves were kind of gray in their personality. Not exactly sad. Not exactly happy. They wore neutral expressions and not a one smiled when they allowed their eyes to meet mine. Some of them didn’t even bother to hide their disappointment in seeing a young girl with obvious Mexican blood. I remember feeling my spine go very straight and I looked back at them as fiercely as I possibly could, given my tender age. One man sort of smiled. For a gray New Yorker it was a smile at any rate.”

All right, everyone, enough for today. I will be carrying this introduction forward in a series of blog posts. So stay tuned and subscribe here to get an email when they post.